(as they say in Middle-earth)
by Ruadhnait
Summary: In which Maglor is slightly unhinged and Círdan is an ineffectual therapist. One of those fics that could almost be funny but somehow isn't.


_A chance-meeting, as we say in Middle-earth_

He had not been expecting anyone at that hour, least of all Maglor. Círdan's heart thudded in surprise, just a little, when he turned and saw the dark and shadowy figure leaning in the corner of the courtyard, arms folded.

He straightened up, leaving the hull of the skiff he had been patching. "So it's you again," he said.

"So it would seem." The corners of Maglor's mouth lifted slightly. "What are you up to?"

"This," Círdan said, indicating the boat. "Accursed wood keeps rotting on me."

"Is that so," Maglor said mildly. "Well, as far as I'm concerned, no wood from the forests of the Third Age can ever compete with what we had in Beleriand."

"Agreed," Círdan said with a sigh. "Remember Lond Sirion? The ships we had there…"

"You had nothing there." Maglor's voice was scornful. "You had a marsh full of reeds. Which is why you kept stealing from Taur-im-Duinath.'

"There was plenty there for both of us," Círdan said soothingly.

"Oh, I know. But still. Your ships went only to Balar and back. Nothing like what we had in Valinor."

"You didn't have anything, you were a Noldo." Círdan knelt again by his skiff.

"Oh, yes, we did," Maglor insisted. Círdan chuckled slightly.

"You had them, and then you burned them."

"They had ceased to be useful to us," Maglor said loftily. "My point, Círyatan-"

"That's not my name," Círdan protested.

"It's your name in Quenya, and as far as I'm concerned, it's a hell of a lot better," Maglor said flatly. Círdan laughed at him.

"Keep your airs, princeling. Remind me again what your point was?"

"That you didn't have real ships, made for long sailing. You only made little trips up and down Beleriand's insignificant coast."

"It didn't seem so insignificant when he landed at Losgar," Círdan remarked. "No, we had a few. You forget the fleets we sent to Valinor."

"They never came back, did they?" Maglor said softly.

"No, they didn't," Círdan said regretfully. "And fine ships and fine men they were too."

"A pity," Maglor agreed.

They were silent for a while. Círdan whacked the side of his boat meditatively, humming under his breath. Maglor took a seat on the white wall curving along the quay. "So when's your next boatload leaving, Círyatan?" he said at last.

Círdan seemed to have found the correct strip of wood and was fitting it carefully into the space where the rotted wood had been. "A week from now," he said without looking up. "Real live Noldor from the First Age, too. Been living with the Lady Galadriel-"

"Alatáriel," Maglor corrected him absently.

"-and have decided that they've had enough of Middle-earth. Usual story."

Maglor nodded slowly. "Second generation, am I right? Third even? Sindarin blood in there?"

Círdan shook his head. "Guess again.

"Arafinweans?" Maglor sighed.

"Probably some of both," Círdan admitted. "Not quite sure. In any case, they've no fear of any curse."

"Impudent bastards," Maglor muttered vehemently, jerking roughly at a trailing thread on his cloak.

Círdan looked up at him sharply. "Watch how you speak," he said evenly.

"Oh, suit yourself, O Master of Wisdom." Maglor scowled.

"And after all these years, too." Círdan shook his head, unable to keep the smile from creeping onto his lips. "For shame."

"I know, nothing changes, does it?" Maglor's smile was bitter.

"You'd think it would," Círdan agreed, then sat back on his heels and examined his work. "No, no, that's all wrong," he muttered irritably, tearing out the piece of wood and cursing under his breath.

"Watch how you speak," Maglor said with a crooked smile. "Your mother would be ashamed."

"I didn't have a mother," Círdan said grumpily.

"Oh, I forgot. Did I ever tell you that my father taught me to swear?" Maglor said wistfully. "Taught me to swear one oath in particular that made everyone cringe. Not least my mother."

Círdan wasn't listening. "Ah-ha!" he said triumphantly. "See, it's finished." He gazed proudly at the upturned belly of the skiff, now gleaming like new.

"Very nice," Maglor said. "But you know what I always say."

"Yes, I do, and I'd rather you kept it to yourself."  
"Suit yourself," Maglor said again.

Several moments passed as Círdan circled the little boat, examining it carefully and whistling under his breath.

"You know," Maglor said after a while. "This place of yours is most ineptly named."

"How's that?" Círdan asked, startled.

"It's called Mithlond. The Grey Havens. It is not a haven. A haven is a place where ships come to anchor after a long voyage. For those who set sail from here, it is the beginning of the journey. And those who set out from here never return."

"Well, I got the 'grey' part right," Círdan said at last.

"That you certainly did," Maglor said, staring round at the cluster of stone buildings, worn and weathered by a thousand years on the shores of the sea, the flags of the courtyard worn smooth by the tread of countless passing feet on their way west. "But don't you see what I mean? This isn't a 'lond', a haven. This is a place of departure, not of return. Oh- I don't know the word, assuredly not in your debased Sindarin, but not even in Quenya. I don't think there is one. I don't think our language was fashioned with this in mind."

"No, it was fashioned by bright-eyed fools in the dawn of the world, with your father not least among them," Círdan said wearily. Maglor had been crumbling a piece of moss in his hand; now he let the bits of dirt and plant fall gently through his fingers.

"We've always been fools, Círyatan," he said softly.

"Your brothers, too?"

"Stubborn idiots, all of them." Maglor's laugh fractured halfway through into something strangely like a sob. "And I the worst among them."

"Even Maedhros?"

"He was a coward," Maglor said bitterly. "Oh, I know, you'll say the Orcs fled before his wrath, and the damage he did to Morgoth was unmatched- I knew him. He begged for death twice from Fingon, there on Thangorodrim with nothing between him and his soul. He could never face himself. He always built up something else around him- something bright and fell and false, like a reign, a kingdom, glory in battle, Fingon, his friendship with the others- but when all that was taken from him, he fled. I saw him. He had to die. He could never live with himself."

"You should not speak so about the dead," Círdan said.

"But I do," Maglor said defiantly. "And I loved him. I loved him the best of all my brothers. I would have followed him to the end, only he had to go and kill himself that way, the idiot." His voice cracked.

"Maglor, that's enough," Círdan said firmly. "Don't speak of such things."

"You know, they speak to me," Maglor continued wildly. "My brothers. I'll be alone, on the beach maybe, just me and that hateful sea. And they'll speak to me. I'll see one of them sitting next to me, but when I turn to look at them, they'll disappear, but be back a minute later."

"Maglor," Círdan interrupted. "Enough."

Maglor's eyes were unnaturally bright. He ignored Círdan and went on, "You know Tyelko was going to marry Ireth? But after Mithrim, they never saw each other again, and then she died. Tyelko was never the same after that. I swear a madness came on him. He-"

"Yes, I heard," Círdan said. "Maglor, some wine?"

"Wine? Where from?"

Círdan looked at him carefully. "From the vineyards of King Thranduil. It was a parting gift from a group of Silvan Elves going west. It's quite good, really, better than I expected. If you can overcome your prejudices, maybe you'd like some."

"Perhaps I'll be magnanimous, just this once." Maglor got to his feet and followed Círdan through the nearest doorway.

"Nothing like the First Age stuff," Círdan said, rustling through an ironbound chest. Maglor could hear the faint clink of glass and see the dim outlines of dust-covered bottles in the gloom. Círdan straightened up, peering at a selected bottle. "This should do it." He poured Maglor a liberal portion into a jewel-encrusted cup. "Be careful with that, now," he warned. "It came from Gondolin."

"Oh, really?" Maglor was already burying his face in the cup's wide bowl. He came up sometime later. "Círyatan, this is really marvelous. Some more, please." He handed the cup to Círdan, who obliged.

"You know, I shouldn't really be giving you this," Círdan said, before returning the newly filled glass to his guest. "And you drink it so fast. No wonder you're in such ill health."

Maglor snorted and elbowed Círdan, spilling some wine. "I'm alive and kicking, thanks very much."

"You'll probably sleep this off in some ditch tonight," Círdan continued reprovingly.

"I," said Maglor with an air of injured dignity, "do not get drunk. Another, please." Círdan sighed and took the cup from him.

"But you drink too much."

"I don't get wine very often, much less wine as good as this," Maglor said, taking the proffered cup. "My word, Círdan," he said after draining it. "You must have a wonderful life here. I think that'll be all," he said ruefully. "Perhaps I will get a little drunk." He raised the now-empty cup. "To your very good health."

"You were supposed to say that before you drank, not after," Círdan said absently, then reached up to take the goblet from him Maglor held it out of his reach.

"Not so fast." He set it down gently. "There." Círdan shook his head.

"Maglor, you're not well."

"That should be obvious," Maglor said dryly, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand.

"I wish you would go to Imladris, at least," Círdan said, his face troubled.

"Don't speak of that!" Maglor snarled with sudden and alarming vehemence, swinging round to face Círdan. "Do you not _dare_ mention that."

"Where are you going after this?"

"To take another long walk on the beach," Maglor said irritably. "What did you think?"

"You're driving yourself insane, Maglor," Círdan said in a low voice. "Don't you see that?"

Maglor snorted. "I _am_ mad. I have always been mad. I would have thought that even you could see that."

Círdan said nothing for a while. "I worry about you," he said finally.

"All my life people have been worrying about me," Maglor said peevishly. "And a fat lot of good it's done me."

Círdan sighed. "You would not let yourself be helped, that is all." He looked up at Maglor. "Go, then."

Maglor looked mildly offended. "You are not over-courteous in your farewells. But I thank you for the wine. Perhaps I'll stop by again when the Silvan Elves are passing through."

Círdan saw him to the door. Outside, night had fallen in earnest, an overcast night with no moon in the murky sky and a cold wind blowing from the west and scattering the dead leaves resting on the stones of the courtyard. Círdan bent to retrieve the hammer and nails he had been using earlier. He suddenly looked very old, old and weather and grey, and as he stood he winced and rubbed his back. Maglor inclined his head wordlessly and made off into the night as swiftly as he had come. Círdan stood for a while watching his retreating figure. The wind murmured restlessly in the silent Havens, and it was not long before the darkness swallowed them both.


End file.
